


Because it is Bitter

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Agoraphobia, Gen, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan presses his face into the cool glass of the passenger-side window and blinks at his reflection. It takes a few moments to recognize the narrow nose, the wide eyes and chapped lips.  If he could think straight, he might be worried. Instead, he closes his eyes against himself and listens to the static on the radio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because it is Bitter

Ryan is trying not to feel the rocking of the car under him. So far, his efforts have been fruitless. The brown paper bag in his hand is familiar and comfortable, the only thing that feels right at all. He feels hot under his sweater and jeans, like his skin is constricting around his muscles. Strangling them. He takes a deep breath, feels it rattle in his lungs. He’s at a six- not so far gone that he’s going to have an attack, but close enough to it that he’s worried.

Beside him, his mother drives silently. She is tense, brittle around the edges. Ryan can’t remember the last time he saw her as anything else. It’s the same as he can’t see his father as anything other than drunk, leaning over the kitchen table. They’re his parents, the only thing he has, and he can’t think of them outside of two-dimensions. Maybe, he thinks, it’s better that way.

Ryan presses his face into the cool glass of the passenger-side window and blinks at his reflection. It takes a few moments to recognize the narrow nose, the wide eyes and chapped lips. If he could think straight, he might be worried. Instead, he closes his eyes against himself and listens to the static on the radio. 

Christmas is coming, and Ryan hasn’t stepped outside of his father’s house since summer. The white of the snow hurts his eyes, makes him feel like he’s in a vacuum. It had taken his mother’s tears and his father’s hoarse, dry threats to get him to agree to the trip to the mall. Ryan thinks he should feel bad about it, that maybe he should feel an ache somewhere inside about breaking his mother’s heart. He doesn’t, though. Not really. All he wants is to be in his bedroom, buried under the covers with a book of poems. 

The car stops at a red light, at an intersection before the turnoff to the high school. Bright, colorful lights hang from the trees, on even though it’s daytime. If Ryan squints, he can see the front doors of Jefferson High, tall and intimidating, closed for the end of the year. He remembers, distantly, walking in and out of the doors with friends. Before. When he wasn’t terrified of the outdoors. It seems like it’s been longer than two years. Like maybe he’s been isolated for decades, instead. 

The jolt of the car startles him as it rolls forward. He clenches his fist around his bag and brings it to his mouth, just in case. His mother casts a worried glance at him, a crease settling in between her eyebrows. Ryan waves her off with his free hand, breathing in deep from the bag. He’s moved up to a seven, and they haven’t even made it to the parking lot yet.

“Ryan?” His mother’s voice seems alien. It’s been too long since he’s heard her talk to him in person, and he misses the tinny, static version that he associates with her now. 

“I’m okay,” Ryan says into the bag, squeezing his eyes shut. He can pretend he’s home if he just tries hard enough. He can be safe in bed with his poems and his flashlight and his stereo turned up too loud. Safe. Where he belongs; where no one else can touch him. His imagination has never been the problem. He can almost see the posters on his walls, feel the worn cotton of his quilt wrapped around him, when the car stops again. Ryan keeps his eyes closed until he hears the driver’s side door close. His heart skips a beat. He’s at an eight and climbing. 

Ryan opens his door and tumbles out into the parking lot. He figures it can be like a band-aid- the faster you rip it off, the easier it is. This may be a wrong assumption. The chemical smell of salt overtakes him, too strong. The parking lot is filled with slush and cars, people weaving in and out, flurries of motion that seem to be going too fast.

Ryan feels dizzy. He clutches the corner of the door with one hand, bending forward in an attempt to stabilize himself. His mother’s hand is on his back, rubbing through his sweater. Ryan jerks away from her. He can’t breathe, oh, god, he can’t breathe. His throat is closing, blocking his airways, choking him. The world is nothing but a swirl of red and green and blue and white, white, white as Ryan falls to his knees. The bones grind together, the thin knees of his jeans tear. He’s a mess of too long legs and arms on the pavement, curled around himself. 

Someone’s yelling in the background. Ryan can hear them distantly, through the panic in his head. The voice is unfamiliar, and the pain in his chest is growing. He can’t move, can’t scream. It’s taking all his strength to just suck in weak, shallow breaths through his mouth. He thinks he can hear his mother yelling, maybe crying. Then, he feels himself being picked up from the ground, moving away from the snow and back into the car. 

With the door shut tight against his side and the heat on, Ryan can feel himself begin to uncurl, can feel the burn at the back of his neck fading away. The pain in his chest is still sharp, and his head is pounding. He thinks he may have hit it against the door on his way down. A raised hand to his temple proves him right- there’s blood on his fingertips when he looks at them.

He gropes for his bag and finds it on the dashboard. It crumples in his hand, familiar weight and familiar smell as he presses his mouth to it. A breath in, a slow, shaky breath out. The pain in his chest subsides. His headache does not. He’s back to an eight. 

The ride home is in silence. His mother doesn’t mention the hours she wasted driving into the city to pick him up, and Ryan doesn’t mention the streaks of mascara that run down her cheeks. He runs into his father’s house when the car pulls into the driveway, straight to his room. The quilt is comforting, and it only takes a few minutes to get down to a one. He’s safe here. He’s okay.


End file.
